Exeunt
by Elessar King
Summary: Post WacaMole. When his brother told him he had a phonecall, James refused it. He was busy, writing a play.


I wrote this last night during a more miserable mood after more bad news. I swear, this entire year has just…sucked. This isn't my frame of mind though, never was, but I just had the urge to write really angsty Wilson, and he's full of angst. May not be entirely accurate, I added in a reference to (cough) something non-House but RSL related…you'll catch it I'm sure. Um…I think that's it. A mushfic may be to follow though, I always like mush with my angst.

Exeunt

The room was small - it reminded him of being home. It was a cozy feeling, that he needed, particularly now. The room however, wasn't so small that it felt like it was closing in on him. Like his office did. His hotel room had been roomy enough, but...with no money, he couldn't exactly stay there anymore.

Wilson looked down at the blank piece of paper in front of him on the desk, twisting the pen in his hand. He slowly started writing, forming each word with careful thought. And with each word, he thought of how he got here. 

His own tendency to fall in love too easily. Something that sounded like a gift, but...was a curse. It was impossible to fill a desire to be needed. Which made him just as much an addict as House. That was first. It left him without a place to live. It left him alone, in a world full of people.

His idea that all people, inside, were good. Because they weren't. Those that thought so were brutally taken advantage of, over and over again.

His trusting and self-sacrificing nature. When matched against nothing, then he was simply sacrificing himself, being the Christ-figure in a play with no audience. Except maybe himself. There was no audience because within the first act, there were dark forms seen going down the aisles towards the exits. Leaving him alone on the stage. But that had been the first point...alone.

His hold onto the belief of unconditional love, be it friendship or romantic. Truth be told, James still believed it was there. He had yet to be swayed that it didn't exist, or if it did, then it was only among fools. But he was close. Mostly, because he was proved to be a fool. To try to move a brick wall to care was a pointless exercise that only ended in aching shoulders. Then why did the wall itself hurt?

James stared down at the paper for a moment, reading what he had just written. Everything led him here? To a battle with the police because he wanted to protect his best friend. Now his job, his residence, his car... He told House that there were two things in his life that worked for him - his job and their stupid, screwed up friendship. He always expected that if he lost one, he would always have the other. Perhaps he put too much dependency on that, and now he could see clearly.

But he didn't have the heart to let House hang in the wind before the police on his own. No matter what it cost him. A bitter smile crossed his lips. It seemed funny, only just now, when other people had been laughing the whole time.

A small knock at the door disturbed his thoughts, "James?"

He turned around, putting the pen down on the handwritten page, "Yes?"

His brother smiled briefly, not wondering at all what he had been doing, figuring that the paper belonged with the stack of folders on the side of his desk. He held up the phone, his thumb covering the bottom of it, "Um..phone call."

"Who is it?"

There was a small hesitation, "Greg House. He said he tried your cell phone, but...it was disconnected."

"Ah..figures..." James smiled, if only for a moment. He would have been surprised that House was actually calling him, but...maybe at this point it was easier not to really care. It did, after all, seem to be the popular thing to do these days.

"Do you um..want me to tell him that you're busy?" his brother asked softly.

He nodded slightly, "Thanks." He watched silently as his brother turned and walked back down the hall, his voice fading into the front room of the house. James turned back to the desk.

There were times that he tried to convince himself that it wasn't all House. And there were times that it was true. But not now. He had shut down his practice. House had pushed their friendship, as always, until it broke. As he signed the bottom of the page, he recalled a time in his childhood when he had faced a similar situation. This time, he was resolved about it, and had been for days. This time, he had a letter.

James took off his glasses and placed them on the desk before he folded up the letter and placed it in his bag. He turned off the desk lamp and climbed into the single bed in his brother's guest room. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, sleeping sounding for one last night. But before he drifted off, he wondered vaguely, what kind of play he would have been in?

A comedy or tragedy.


End file.
